by Jennie Adams
As they all drew level, Brent wrapped his free hand around her wrist, a gentle touch that guided her to a stop, yet his expression when she looked into his eyes was not gentle, but oh, so determined and guarded and…braced. For what?
Fiona left her wrist in his hold. She wasn’t sure if he even knew he had it clasped there.
Brent could have done without this, but he looked into the face of one of the two men before him and waited for recognition to dawn. Oh, not for himself. He’d recognised Charles immediately. But for the older man—God, for his father—it was apparently taking longer.
Memory hit Brent. Of his father frowning, pushing Brent into a car, muttering that he couldn’t be the father of a freak. Brent had tried so hard as a child to control the outward signs of his condition. He couldn’t remember any other way. Even now he could feel his body tightening, trying to make sure nothing of the autism showed.
Well, it had been too late then. Tight-lipped and silent, his father had taken him to the orphanage, signed him over and walked away.
‘It’s been a long time.’ Brent was proud of the flat, even tone of his voice. He hoped that calm extended to his expression, even if his body was braced.
Charles was older, his hair was grey, but the dawning expression in his eyes was the same. Displeasure, discomfort, rejection.
For a moment Brent thought the older man might simply walk on, not speak, and in that moment Brent knew he would not allow that. This time he wouldn’t be ignored, brushed off. He opened his mouth to speak again.
‘If I’d realised you’d be here—’ Charles broke off, glanced at his companion and his frown deepened.
Brent recognised that look, too. It was amazing just how much came back to him. He’d thought it almost all forgotten. A twitch built at the base of his neck. He banked it down.
Fiona’s glance made him wonder if she’d sensed that tension building. Her hand turned and her fingers closed around his wrist, and he thought she murmured, ‘I know now where I’ve seen that before…’ before she leaned into his side.
Then she gave a polite, plastic smile and said in a normal tone, ‘Won’t you introduce me, Brent?’
‘Fiona Donner, meet Charles MacKay.’ He didn’t explain Fiona to Charles. He didn’t explain his father’s identity to Fiona.
Fiona’s nostrils flared and the sparkle in her eyes flattened out until they were pure blue, expressionless chips. Her gaze turned to his and came back to his father and a thick silence fell.
Into that silence, Charles’s companion spoke.
‘You’ve won an award. Congratulations.’ The man stepped forward and leaned in to examine the award, either oblivious at this point to the tensions in the air, or convinced he could actually do something about them. ‘Oh, I see that’s the landscaping industry award. I read about that in the club notices a few weeks ago. What do you think, Charlie?’ He turned to address the question to the second man.
And what did ‘Charlie’ think? Was he surprised by Brent’s success? Pleased by it? Discomfited by it?
Why care? His opinion means less than nothing. It’s meant less than nothing for a long time now.
‘The family resemblance is strong.’ Fiona’s words were low, the unspoken words written all over her.
This was the man who had given his son away. Somehow she understood so much. That knowledge hit Brent while a raft of emotions washed through him.
Old rejection. A need to understand.
His father’s rejection, Charles’s inability to love the child he’d helped create?
Brent pushed it all away before it could go any further. It was all past news. There was no point revisiting, though he couldn’t be sorry this meeting had happened. At least he could say it was done now, and let go of the feeling he’d carried around of waiting to stumble across this man.
Yeah? So why didn’t Brent feel any better or more resolved?
Because Charles was acting just the same, and some deep down part of Brent had maybe hoped, just the tiniest bit…
‘Yes, we should be going, Fiona. I think we’re done here.’ As he spoke the words, Brent became truly aware of the curl of Fiona’s fingers around muscles that had set like concrete. His free hand came up to close over Fiona’s, to register the tension in her fingers.
She gave a sturdy tug, as though to shepherd him away from there, and her entire body pressed into his side.
The level of protectiveness he sensed in her in that moment stunned Brent and touched him in ways he couldn’t define.
‘Wow.’ The jolly man’s mobile face worked.
No doubt in another moment he would voice his conclusion that Brent and Charles were ‘father and son’.
How would Brent’s father explain that? He’d done such a good job of ignoring the fact that Brent had ever existed.
How had Charles MacKay dealt with that? An inconvenient accident that had taken his son so soon after the death of the older man’s wife? If so, Brent was rather inconveniently ‘resurrected’.
‘If you’ll excuse us.’ The blandest of bland phrases. Brent decided it was somehow fitting.
He steeled his muscles to keep under his command. There would be no twitching of his head to the side, no drumming of fingers or anything else. Not in front of this man. No exposure. Brent started to turn away.
‘Surely you’d have realised the major industry event in my calendar year was at this venue tonight.’ His father’s words stopped him. The displeasure and self-centredness in them was clear. ‘You should stay out of the limelight altogether. I can’t have—’
‘I do what suits me. I’ve been in charge of myself for a long time now.’ Anger made its way through Brent’s reserve. That, too, he squashed down. It really wasn’t worth it, was it?
Charles couldn’t be proud of his success. The older man couldn’t see past the shame he felt in Brent’s existence.
You let Charles’s shame impact on you, on how you live, how you present yourself.
Had Brent done that? Would he have looked at his autism differently if Charles had done so?
Well, Charles hadn’t done, and that hadn’t changed. Brent spoke with that thought fresh in his mind. ‘If that doesn’t appeal to you, you’re welcome to stay clear of anywhere you think I might show up.’
As for Charles’s business activities, Brent had little clue and planned to keep it that way. If they crossed paths again, so what? Brent wasn’t about to actively keep away from anything for the sake of avoiding this man. What could Charles do, after all? Reject his son?
Been there, lived that, got the new and better, loving, close-knit family with Linc and Alex to prove it.
With that thought calmness came back to him. He did have Linc and Alex and they were what he wanted. Not the cold stranger in front of him.
‘Good evening. Don’t feel it’s necessary to speak the next time we meet—’
‘You must be highly medicated to succeed at hiding your flaw, even temporarily, for something like this evening.’ His father’s words held ignorance, accusation, harshness and confusion. ‘I didn’t know autis—’
‘Obviously you don’t know much.’ Brent spoke over the top of the older man. ‘Goodbye.’
He whisked Fiona away then. And he noted with some almost detached part of himself that his body responded perfectly to each of his commands.
Grip Fiona’s hand. Lead her around the two men. Nod politely at the goggle-eyed companion in passing.
Stride away, relying on the length of those beautiful legs of Fiona’s to allow her to keep up with his pace until they got outside and he sucked in a deep breath of cleansing air.
‘There’s a taxi. We’re going. We’re getting right away from here and from that—’ Fiona’s words were shocked, shaken. She flagged the cab forward with a hand that visibly trembled.
Brent turned his gaze to her and something deep and protective came to life in him. His voice was soft as he spoke, deep and gentle…‘Don’t worry. Everything’s fine�
��’
‘No. It’s not.’ She shook her head, a decisive shake that said she wasn’t about to be convinced.
And what else had she registered? Charles’s final word? That Brent had autism?
Moments later they were ensconced in the back seat and her shoulder was pressed to his, their bodies tucked as close as she could get them as she gave her address to the driver without sparing him as much as a glance.
All her attention was for Brent. In part that made him uncomfortable, and yet…
‘I should explain.’ Brent cleared his throat. ‘He’s not…I don’t…’
‘What? He isn’t important? You don’t care that he rejected you because you’re autistic?’ The words burst out of her and then she chewed her lip. ‘I’m sorry. I heard him, but I’d already wondered.’
It shouldn’t surprise him that she’d come halfway to figuring it out. But now, thanks to Charles, Fiona completely knew the one thing that Brent had worked to keep to himself, where he could guard it and control it…and no person could judge him for it.
‘Yes, I have a form of autism. It’s less of a challenge physically or in other ways than many people live and deal with daily, but it’s still an inherent part of me.’
The mix of emotions he felt as he told her this was difficult to define.
Fiona’s face tightened and she whispered, ‘How could he treat you like that?’
And Brent realised that for all he’d believed he’d resolved this in his heart and mind long ago, there was still…something there. ‘I—don’t know. I don’t know how he could have done that.’
The glitter in her gaze was anger and other emotions mixed. It made something inside him clench. He curled his fingers because suddenly he wanted to lace them with hers.
‘This explains your ability to concentrate your focus so intensely when you’re producing those amazing landscape designs.’ Fiona drew a determined breath, deliberately seemed to calm herself. ‘I’ve thought that was amazing. Now I understand it.’
She turned Brent on his ear by addressing his condition as though it were of benefit.
God, she was amazing, even if she wasn’t seeing the whole picture. ‘Well—’ Brent realised he was simply sitting there, soaking in her warmth. He would have drawn away from Fiona then. He had to get this back to some kind of ordinary footing before his body started leading the rest of him, short-circuited what his brain knew he had to do, namely leave her alone, and got him in trouble.
‘Please don’t…shift away yet. I need…’ Her words were low, a blend of anger and hurt and heart.
She had a generosity in her nature that Brent couldn’t seem to help responding to.
‘I know…that man revealed something about you that you obviously feel wasn’t my business.’ Her words were low, careful. ‘He had no right to do that, but you can trust me with the knowledge. I’m just…furious about…’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Yet he couldn’t deny his anger and old resentment. ‘I don’t need Charles MacKay’s approval.’
‘Maybe not, but you deserved his love and acceptance.’ Fiona turned to fully face him and all her fury was in her eyes. Her fingers gripped his once again. ‘You probably don’t even want to think about him. We’ll talk about the award. The night we had. It was a good night. You deserved to win. I said you’d get it, didn’t I?’
She probably would have kept going, but he squeezed her fingers and laid them against his thigh and covered her hand with his. Set the award on the floor of the taxi so he could focus solely on her. ‘I dealt with my father dumping me a long time ago.’
‘What happened so that it was only your father making the decision to…stop parenting you?’
To reject Brent? Pass him off into strangers’ hands because he didn’t want to deal with a child who was different? ‘My mother died. I was young. All I remember was he couldn’t cope with my issues. Now he’s got the problem that I grew up, made something of myself, and he doesn’t want to have to acknowledge my existence.’
‘He’s the one who should be ashamed to exist.’ Fiona uttered the words and let him see in her gaze all she was feeling. Her protectiveness towards him that was so sweet when he was perfectly capable of looking after himself.
Yet something down inside him admitted it would be nice. To have a woman’s care.
Well, he couldn’t do that, could he? He couldn’t let himself care or wish to be cared for. Brent could take the hard knocks of life. But setting himself up for the embarrassment of rejection because of his condition—
That was one ‘been there, done that’ he didn’t want to repeat.
Are you sure it’s only about that, MacKay?
Tension pooled at the base of Brent’s neck and he frowned. Of course he was certain. What else would there be?
‘Here we are.’ The driver’s voice interrupted Brent’s thoughts and he realised they’d arrived at Fiona’s block of flats.
Brent still had Fiona’s fingers pressed to his thigh, could feel their warmth. Her body remained pressed to his. Consciousness of her swept over Brent then, and pushed past his guardedness about his condition. His instincts took over and at this moment his autism didn’t come into it. Brent’s hand caressed over Fiona’s. His fingers stroked hers.
A dozen different thoughts buzzed in Fiona’s head, with as many accompanying emotions.
When Brent instructed the driver to wait, climbing from the taxi with her to start the short journey to her flat, those thoughts distilled into pure feeling. The touch of his fingers at her elbow as he guided her along the path, up the staircase and along the balcony that led to her flat.
The beat of her blood in her veins as she tried to decide whether to invite him in, say goodnight, talk about their night, the award, the good parts of the evening.
Of all of it, the trip back here in the taxi with their bodies close to each other had been the best. And for her, she had to admit, the most emotional.
His father had rejected him, abandoned him, all because Brent had a condition he had learned to live with and, indeed, to use to his advantage in business, in his work. His uniqueness only made him all the more appealing.
And right now he had his hand at her elbow and Fiona’s heart was beating a little faster because…she liked that touch.
Liked it too much for her safety? Attraction, that was easy to deal with, but was she more than attracted? Were her emotions involved? Because she really mustn’t let that be the case.
He was her boss. She should say goodnight and walk inside…‘Brent, thank you for tonight—’
‘Thank you for attending the Awards ceremony with me.’ He paused. ‘You got more than you bargained for with our exchange of a family night for the Awards night.’
‘My family situation isn’t even worth words in comparison to what happened tonight.’ She shook her head. How could she even think her paltry difficulties with her family mattered now? ‘Brent, I just don’t know how to comfort—’
‘Don’t feel sorry for me.’ Though he interrupted her, he did it gently, wrapping his fingers around hers where she’d been toying with her keys. ‘My past is what it is. I’ve moved on from it.’
‘Maybe, but you went on trying to conceal a part of yourself that you shouldn’t worry about that way.’ She bit her lip. Her breath stuttered in her throat and she whispered, ‘I can’t talk—’
About it any more? Brent certainly didn’t want to.
‘Then we won’t talk.’ He uttered the words with an accepting edge. ‘I’d rather do this, anyway.’ He bent his head to hers.
Touched his lips to hers.
A soft, seeking, giving and taking exchange. Lips to lips. How could it be all of this between them? And yet, somewhere inside herself, Fiona had wanted and needed his kiss and not even known how much she did.
Now she knew.
A taste of delight and sweetness and desire and pleasure. Her fingers wrapped around his forearms, and his hands were about her waist.
It felt good and right to have his mouth over hers, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her waist. For a few wonderful moments, she lived in the sensations of kissing him.
His mouth caressed hers as though he needed and wanted to kiss her this way. Their gazes were locked, his lashes dusky crescents that fanned against his cheeks as he focused wholly on her. And then those lashes swept down fully and her eyes closed too, and it was all sensation and feeling and the beat of her heart in her breast and the spread of such warmth all through her.
That warmth told its own story. She had invested emotionally in him, at least to a degree, even when she knew that was dangerous. A little hint of panic surfaced as Fiona made this realisation.
And the moment that panic hit, she realised something in Brent had changed as well.
He ended the kiss and dropped his hands away from her. Stepped back, and some kind of regret showed in his eyes. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. It can’t go anywhere. You and I can never—’
He cut off the rest of the sentence, but he didn’t need to finish it. Fiona could do that herself.
Now that he’d felt the reality, had touched the reality of her generous curves, he did not want her. The house of cards that had been desire and pleasure and closeness and a hope she should never have allowed, crumbled down.
Fiona tipped up her chin and told herself it didn’t matter. It absolutely, fiercely did not matter. ‘Goodnight, Brent.’
‘Goodnight. I’m—’
Sorry.
At least he didn’t say it.
With one last glance from a troubled green gaze, Brent walked away.
CHAPTER SIX
REPEAT after me: I am a professional, I am a professional, I am a professional. I’m focused on my work, my career, my ‘five year plan’ and my goals for success…
Fiona attempted, yet again, for the umpteenth time, to figure out what was wrong with the feature plants in the painting she was working on. If she could feel settled or focused about anything at all, it might help her make a decent assessment of the problem.
And how could she feel settled when all of her was utterly distracted and had been since the night Brent had kissed her and walked away straight afterwards?
